


Trustworthy

by sinners_sandwich



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Character Analysis? is that a thing? idfk, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 08:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4660164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinners_sandwich/pseuds/sinners_sandwich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation.  (Roman/Dean)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trustworthy

Roman wakes up with his feet cold. Not his favorite way to get pulled from a nap, but it's sign enough; he always goes to sleep with his socks _on_ , and if he wakes up without them, well? Then someone's pulled off his damn socks. He's not irritated by this, or tries not to be, turning over onto his back on the hotel bed that smells vaguely of someone else's cigarettes.

He doesn't have to turn his eyes, half-closed, from the ceiling to know he's got company. If the missing socks aren't enough of a clue, he can hear the slight swish of air being swiped and punched at, and the soft thudding of feet hopping impatiently against the carpet a little way away.

With a yawn, Roman throws an arm over his head and shuts his eyes for a moment.

"C'mon, killer." Dean's voice cuts across the silence, the air already energized with his frantic movement. "C'mon, up and at 'em. Rise and shine!" He's nearly shouting, loud enough that it does draw Roman's attention toward him, his arm dropping from his face and a grin playing at his lips at Dean's tone, which anyone else might mistake for anger.

He gets up, or sits up, but does fuck all else, waiting for the explanation of why he needs to rise and shine at half past midnight. Fingers scrub through his hair, loosening the sore spots on his scalp.

"Whattup, Dean," he manages through another yawn.

Dean crosses over from the other side of the unused bed, leaning over toward him and messing his hair up just a little more than it is, then shaking Roman's head for good measure. He grins at Roman's confused, half-irritated blinking. "What, don't tell me you were trying to sleep? We got places to be."

"No one told me 'bout that," Roman grunts, his own grin not faded as Dean hands him his stolen socks back.

"Oh, well, then." Dean pats a hand firmly against the side of Roman's face, cheeky smile and all. "Consider yourself told."  
  
  


* * *

 

"I'm gonna kick your ass," Roman states, and it's as familiar as commenting on the weather.

Well, in this case, it's not the weather so much as the view. Dean's dragged his ass--not unwillingly--a little way out of town, driven them up through the forest toward an overlook out on the hills.

The view is nice, bright city lights below them; not exactly worth a trip out when they should be asleep, but fuck it. He _gets_ it. Dean didn't drag him out here for a romantic moment or to admire some same view they can find in any city. The guy needs to be away from it all sometimes, the noise and the bustle, and that 'sometimes' tends to strike whenever it pleases. Roman's used to crowds, to voices being on the other side of every wall around him, but Dean, well. He grew up a certain way of his own.

"What, for dragging you out of boresville, for showing you the light?" Dean shoots back at him with a grin, though it doesn't bear the energy of before, something more relaxed to it. Lost in his own thoughts, Roman figures.

And Roman's grinning, too. He's kinda accepted this, that the guy makes him smile in ways your regular old friends don't make you smile, but it's the same the other way around, and neither one of them ever fussed much over it. They spend their effort where it belongs, on training, on performing, on fighting.

Roman turns his eyes back toward the view. "Looks like a lot more'n one light to me," he grunts. Ever the slow wit and he's aware of it, but Dean doesn't poke him for things like that.

"C'mon, Roman. If you wanna start a fight that bad let's do it, right here, right now."

Roman snorts, stuffs his cold hands in his jacket pockets, and keeps his eyes on the lights. "You know I don't back down from no fight, so don't go saying something you'll regret."

Dean turns toward him, rubbing and tapping at his chin with that unpredictable sway to his movements. "Hey!" he says sharply, and doesn't continue until Roman's looking over. "Don't _you_ start, Reigns, with _that_. Have I ever. _Ever_ , regretted a damn thing I have done in this life. Have I?"

A laugh escapes Roman. He's always gotta put him at a damn disadvantage with these battles of words. "Think you regretted a couple times you got knocked out cold for sayin' the wrong thing to me."

"Nope. Bzz-bzz-bzz, wrong, wrong answer," Dean chirps out, coming in toward him and clapping a hand against Roman's shoulder. "Unless you got it outta me in my own, magnificent voice, and I have never, not, ever, uttered the words 'I regret that'."

The obvious rebuttal is too obvious, so Roman just stares at him for a second before driving a fist into Dean's side and letting him suffer for that one, just a tiny bit.

"Say it," he rumbles.

"Nope."

"A'ight."

"What, s'all you got?" Dean wheezes with a twitchy smile, his arm draped over his side where Roman's fist connected. Self-satisfied beyond belief.

"You ain't gettin' more unless you got a good reason for me to spend my night driving you to the hospital." Roman's haunches are raised just a little. He knows Dean riles him up on purpose but fuck it, he _is_ easy to rile up. Them's the breaks.

Dean's laughing, patting his own side where the heavy fist landed before straightening back up and walking over to the railing, a few steps ahead of them. Given up on pissing him off for the hell of it, Roman figures, following Dean's lead as always.

"And here I was trying to get a romantic evening out," Dean drawls.

Roman lays his palms on the railing just beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and leans in toward him, slightly. Close enough Dean can feel breath on his cheek. "You got a funny way of showing it."

"Ain't it the truth."

Roman grins against the curve of Dean's jaw before drawing back without making much more of it, but he remains there next to him. There's a long silence that settles there, and for all the noise the two of them can make, Roman likes the silences more, sometimes. Dean, well--he trusts the guy. More than words can say, though he's tried to put it into words before. He knows all the shit about Dean being unpredictable. He's the first guy who can attest to that. But you can trust a guy, he'd say, whose intentions stay grounded while his spirit flies free.

"Fuck," he breaks the silence at his own sentiments.

"Thinkin' about how bad you got it for me?" Dean jokes with his own grin still aimed down at the lights below, but there's a suspicious squint around his eyes.

"Shove it, man."

"I mean, I don't _blame_ you," Dean goes on, ever set on teasing him, but when he turns toward him there, putting a bit of space between them, he gives him a look that's more curious than anything. Reserved, which is odd. "Y'always were the big softie."

Roman fights not to roll his eyes, letting the moment be serious if Dean wants it to be. "Yeah, that's me all right. Soft as a fucking boulder."

This seems to please Dean, though not in the way intended, drawing a broad and crooked smile to his lips. "For all intents and purposes we're on a two-AM date right now and you didn't exactly have a problem with it."

Roman pauses, eyes searching Dean's. "What's your point?" He's not willing to be suspect of Dean's intentions unless given a good reason. He just needs help picking up on them sometimes.

"I'm sayin' you been turned on by folks much more.." Dean's fingers wiggle at the air, sifting through his own thoughts for the right word. "Trustworthy than me." He doesn't seem to like the taste of the one he settles on, but he leaves it.

"Why you think you ain't trustworthy?"

Dean blinks through his grin. "Oh," he says, like he pities him for that response.

Roman's temper flares just the slightest bit. "You tellin' me you're not trustworthy? You tellin' me not to trust you, Dean?" He doesn't believe that, actually, it's just he's kind of fucking irritated that Dean considers this a topic to joke about.

"I am, dear Roman Reigns," Dean starts, leaning in to pat the side of Roman's face again and stilling when Roman's fist flies up to clamp around his wrist. His eyes drag over to that slowly; "Merely keeping you on your toes."

Roman lets out a breath. He doesn't know why Dean constantly feels the need to test him, but here they are. His best bet? Dean likes the reactions. He does like him mad. Why he likes him mad at _him_ , he'll never fucking know.

"My toes don't need the help," he replies shortly, squeezing Dean's wrist with an irritation he can barely hide. And as he lets go and heads back toward the rental car, he can feel the guy's eyes on his back.  
  
  


* * *

 

Roman usually forgets whatever their 'arguments' are about pretty quick, cause he just doesn't keep a grudge against this man--but this time, something's struck a nerve.

The tension in the car is mostly one-sided, as it tends to be at times like this. At least, the part of it that consists of Roman Reigns' anger. The rest, well. They have a system for working out these tiffs that it's almost always Dean's fault of getting them into.

They follow it, no questions or uncertainty brought up about it, pushing back into the hotel room with one jumpy Dean and one tense, shoulders-squared Roman, and it's not clear who grabs who first. It is clear who's got more of a bone to pick though, as Roman's got Dean pressed hard against the wall in an instant, belaying any more bullshit conversation with his lips, teeth, tongue against his.

It's a breathless contact, forced to draw on longer than it needs to, and Roman hasn't got it in him to smile when he feels Dean already trying to talk with his tongue still brushing his own. Roman pulls back, gives him the mercy of breath and free speech, the only two things Ambrose decidedly _needs_ at any given point.

"Can barely breathe over here, big guy." Dean's muttering, his teeth tugging and pulling at Roman's lips without intiating another kiss, feeling the hot breath that huffs out between them. "Play your cards right n'you might be sendin' me to the hospital tonight after all."

Like he can't believe the fucking gall, Roman just gives a bit of a grunt, large hands skating down Dean's sides, slipping under the edge of his shirt, and drawing back upward, thumbs dragging along ribs as he tugs the shirt off him. "You say shit like that again and you will be."

Dean grins, like it's exactly what he wants to hear, and somehow that just riles Roman up more, tugging them both away from the wall and over to the bed and throwing him down onto it. Everything about Dean's expression tells him this is right, this is exactly right, and it's exactly what he wants. If Roman won't take out his anger on him one way, might as well be another.

Except Roman knows this game, and he keeps up with it out of sheer practice and repetition, letting his head cool before he touches Dean again. Fighting is one thing. Fucking rough is a second thing. But fucking out a fight is not really Roman's bag. Can't replace one form of resolution with another, not in this case.

Though his dick--and that bright look of want on Dean's face--spur him not to forget what they've started, anyway, and he crawls onto the bed over the guy who looks just a little too inviting where he waits for him. He says nothing through the kiss that follows, through the press of his thigh between Dean's, the scrape of blunt nails against Dean's side to give him that edge of pain he likes.

"Fuck." Dean approves. Roman drags his nails lower, painting marks into Dean's collarbone with his teeth, into the middle of his chest, places that can be covered up easy later, enough testament that he's still thinking with his head--somewhat.

If it weren't just like Roman to go on with things silently, it could be said he's suspiciously quiet. He knows he's gotta wait until he's in a more advantageous position to get anything like a straight answer out of him.

He grips his fingers into Dean's sides when Dean starts wriggling away, knowing there is no damn way he's changed his mind at this point, and he simply watches as Dean reaches back over his head into the drawer for a bottle of lube and condom that go tossed down to him. Roman shrugs, as if he'll only _consider_ using them, just for the spark of challenge and, fuck it, sheer assholish _glee_ that crosses Dean's face.

"What's on your mind, big guy?" Dean murmurs, reaching up to brush fingers through the mess of black hair that hangs down over a look that's so stony Dean appears to find it comical, cracking a smile to Roman's expression. "Deciding you're gonna put me in the hospital after all?"

"Enough with the fucking hospital," Roman grumbles, but he averts his eyes down to slicking his fingers with lube. There's times for going slow and soft and working each other up--times for being more like that sort of couple that they aren't. That time is not now, and Dean seems to agree, undoing his own jeans and kicking them free with the rest of his clothes. He helps Roman with his own, with a few impatient tugs.

Roman pauses and lays a tentative kiss to Dean's abdomen--ignoring the smug look toward his appreciation that comes a bit gentler than his mood, confirming Dean's shit earlier about him being soft--before pressing those fingers between his legs.

"Fuuuck. Aaaah." Approval.

"S'what I thought."

"Mm," Dean replies, yanking him down for another kiss and it's clear in the tension behind it that Roman's not stretching him out near as fast or rough as he wants, and Roman, well--he takes satisfaction in that. "Roman, c'mon."

"You wanna get hurt, you got other people who can do that for you."

A heavy silence falls past Roman's words, putting it out for Dean that he can rile him up as much as he wants, Roman's got sense enough not to confuse what they do in bed with the kind of anger that comes from a real fight. This far along, with Roman's fingers working, taking care to stretch him properly, and laying short little kisses along the dark hickeys he's sucked along his chest, Dean can't exactly say he's killed the mood.

But, it's definitely shifted. He's quiet, no snappy comebacks, and if Roman doesn't know better he'd say he's almost caused Dean to stop and think. Or stop and enjoy, if he's got anything to say about it--curving his fingers with a bit of intent when he thinks he's found the right angle, the right spot.

"Christ, right there."

"Mm," Roman hums his satisfaction, teasing him a little bit now that he's secured his own temper and cooled his head a bit. They fuck around, they're not dating, but he does love the guy and that's foremost where he finds the first smile he's worn in an hour, a slight one that springs reluctant to his lips at the odd twisty way Dean manages to grin and bite his lip at exactly the same time, while his eyes are shut. Like everything that's being done to him is somehow all part of his own design.

No other way to put it, it fucking fills Roman with desire. He wants Dean to acknowledge him. _Him_.

"You got no right to look so damn happy," Dean comments after a moment, appearing to bring Roman back from his thoughts. He gives a little chuckle, something more affectionate to the way he reaches up to touch the guy's hair. It's as close to an apology as Roman's going to get, for Dean bringing up that damn topic earlier.

So Roman gets back at him instead, taking his sweet time rolling the condom on and stroking lube over himself, not appearing affected by his own touch but simply watching the one beneath him as he gets more settled there. His brows lift up when an ankle impatiently sets itself on his shoulder, and his eyes meet Dean's--and that's it, he's done waiting.

Roman keeps that leg up on his shoulder, bearing forward so it bends back toward Dean's chest and he's held like that for him as he nudges into him. Pain crosses Dean's face, just the usual amount, and maybe there's something to be said for the fact Roman can read his physical cues much better than the verbal ones, tuned into that form of conversation better than what passes between them in words that hide feelings--on Dean's part--and those that oversimplify them, on his.

It's good. It's always good. Dean's expressive when he wants to be, the heavy thrust of Roman's hips against him forcing his mouth to gape, his brow to furrow, his lips to sometimes twist one way or the other around a grin that really wants to break free, and breathless laughter when Roman's got the right spot and the right angle; that, Roman finds most fucking satisfying. Seeing him laugh because of him, that's a genuine kind of feeling, and well, maybe he is soft.

Roman keeps a steady pace for a while, and he knows it's expected of him, but it's his turn to be a little unexpected, when he slows, drawing what almost sounds like an aggravated sound from Dean's lips. This sparks amusement on Roman's face, and he barely moves at all--just a slight rock of hips, in place--until Dean's looking up at him with glinting eyes.

"Y'know, you haven't said much tonight," Roman says.

Dean manages to grin up at him, licking his lips while his chest heaves, impatiently. "Thought we were uh.. doin' a kind of, y'know, silent love-making thing," he quips, his voice is somehow deeper than usual. Roman leans down and presses a hard kiss to his lips, hips jolting into him just so, and drawing out a moan that Roman swallows in his own mouth. "Hohhhh, fuck, Roman, _fuck_."

"Yeah." Roman kisses him again. Pushing his hips in again, then pulling out, each action standing out on its own at a slow, stilted, and very specific pace that causes Dean's breathing to quicken, just slightly.

"Fuck."

"Yeah," again. Roman tries to hide his smile, just slightly, utterly pleased with himself and maybe almost forgetting what got them to this point to begin with, because damn if he doesn't like having that sort of command, given willingly.

"Shit, you are hot."

Roman kisses him again in answer, then kisses his jaw, a sure sign he wants to hear more of Dean's voice.

"Like--fuck--fucking! Yes," Dean loses his thoughts and Roman's never been more smug.

"Use your words, Dean." Roman's way closer to the edge than he'll want to admit, but he's gonna put Dean through just a little more hell first.

Dean writhes under him, patience running out, driving against him til Roman's buried in, but he can't force a pace to resume without Roman's help. Frustrated by his own devices, he shoots a wide-eyed, pursed-lips look at the one above him. "Okay, okay okay okay okay. I get it. Fuck. What you want me to say?"

Roman resumes his movements, but they're slow, a little more gentle than either of them honestly likes it. And he's laying kisses against the skin below Dean's ear. "You know you can trust me, right?"

Dean breathes out. "Yeah." He rides his hips against him again.

"And I got no reason not to trust you."

Dean gives a slow, deliberate, nod of his head, once, twice, three times, frustration and something like sarcasm bitten into his expression like he never meant for the damn topic to be such a sore point for him. If he did, well.. that's buried way down deep.

"So--"

"Don't bring it up ever again, right, got it," Dean rushes out for him, but Roman leaves it at that, not wanting to come while moving at a snail's pace. He rocks into him hard, drawing out those last few gasps and shouts of approval from the other and following quick after him as he goes over, face buried in Dean's neck, nails scraping over his sides again, leaving faint red marks. There's a short pause before Roman's lips find his, and Dean's nose brushes Roman's cheek; Roman's reconciliation and an apology of his own, and Dean's acceptance. The easy affection that passes between them when all's said and done.

Dean hisses, quietly, when Roman pulls free, nothing but residual pain spurring that on, but well, he looks damn satisfied. There's nothing said between them while Roman's up and cleaning off in the bathroom, the light cutting harshly into the shadowed bedroom, the sound of the faucet filling the silence.

When Roman comes back out, he drops down onto the bed, draping an arm over his eyes, and well, he figures that's it. Sometimes Dean's chatty afterwards, sometimes he's quiet, nothing worth worrying about unless Dean brings shit up himself. He's halfway asleep when he does, however, and Roman's prepared to pay attention.

"Eh, Roman." Dean sits down on the bed next to him, still naked, relaxed. "If I ever got a problem with you y'know you'll be the first to know about it."

He doesn't lift his head from the propped pillows, but his eyes stay fixed to Dean and his fist raises up, held there until Dean taps it with his own.

"Yeah."

The caught gaze, the slight shared smile, and Roman's arm draping heavy around Dean's waist as he shuts his eyes, is the final note on that.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is appreciated!♥


End file.
